


The Frolic Architecture of the Snow

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Character Death, Disturbing Themes, Drug Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 04:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Out in the cold.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50





	1. The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This story constitutes an alternate ending to "Terror Camp Clear", in which the events are re-imagined thus: Hickey and Tozer are hanged; Collins still overdoses, but is not unceremoniously dispatched by a monstrous polar bear, and though somewhat worse for wear, lives.  
The title of this story is a line taken from the poem, "The Snowstorm", by Ralph Waldo Emerson. The quote in the summary and chapter headings are the titles of tracks from The Snow EP, by Coil.  
I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

It had seemed a lot to ask; like going too far. They had all, already, gone so far, in all respects. Yet, he made himself ask the question. The deed had been done, the fact of it verified. All had dispersed. The arrangements had been made. It was over. For him, though, it was not over, could not be over, not yet.  
Harry took a deep breath. “Captain, may I have a word?” he asked.  
The captain bore the question well. It was unfair to ask it, Harry knew. “It might help,” Harry said, hearing the pleading note in his voice, hating it, for how much it made this seem like something dearly wished, an indulgence. “Though I cannot say how,” he added.  
“Do you have any evidence that they were among the afflicted?”  
Reflexively, Harry cast a glance behind him, at the gallows now being taken down. “Theirs were not the actions of men in their right mind,” he said, shaking his head.  
“If only it were that simple a determination to make, Doctor.”  
Harry felt himself frown. What was the captain saying?  
“I would put this episode behind us,” Captain Crozier said deliberately, “but if you think that you might learn something that would help the others, I’ll allow it.”  
“Thank you, Sir,” Harry said. He allowed himself to sigh out the breath he was half holding.  
“They’ll be brought to you. It won’t be immediately. I’d like to give this some time to die down.”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
“For now, go about your business, as usual.”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
The difficult part was over.  
Was that, though, the difficult part?  
He sets off toward the infirmary slowly, to let himself wind down. That’s how he feels, on the inside, like a spring coiled too tightly. Each step seems to give the imagined spring a turn, so that he begins to feel himself slacken, with relief, as after exertion. It’s as well the captain told him he must wait. If he held out his hands before him, they’d shake. His cuts would be hesitant, uneven. He might make a mistake. Now, more than ever, there can be no mistakes. Not after what it took to get the bodies.  
It should make him feel a kind of coldness, to think of them as bodies. Twenty minutes ago, they were men. They still are. They won’t yet be cool to the touch. But for the immutable evidence of the cause of death, they could be as sleepers; though it had been Harry, not they themselves, who had closed their eyes. Hickey had gone quickly. Tozer had taken longer. Waiting for it, Harry had held his breath. He’d feared a case of strangulation. He’d feared the show of loss of air on the body, that this might distort what he hopes to find.  
He doesn’t know what he hopes to find. What he didn’t say, couldn’t say, to the captain is that, what, if anything, he learns from the bodies of Hickey and Tozer, will likely be of no use to them, now. Any benefit will pass to those who come later, those as yet unsure and seeking to prevent calamity, not stem the tide of one that has already come to pass. Not those who are already past helping. It is rarely for the moment that Harry works, not for what is happening, but for what has not yet happened. It’s sometimes difficult for others to understand. Increasingly, he, himself, doesn’t know why he does it. He grasps at meaning. He forces himself to find it in what he can observe and set down. He clings to it. For a time, it remains with him. He’s grateful.  
He’s reached the tent.  
“It’s over, then,” Mr. Bridgens says.  
“Yes,” Harry says, “it’s over.” He can still feel his pulse shuddering in his wrists. “Can you manage without me a while longer?”  
Bridgens nods.  
It has not yet wound down. Harry again takes up his circuit around the camp. He imagines that some of the men look at him, accusingly. Some of them may suspect the truth. The truth has not yet come to pass. Where the bodies are for the moment, Harry doesn’t know, and the lack of knowledge offers him a feeling of safety. He chooses to receive it.  
It’s snatched up when he sees a shape resolving itself from the fog- shapes, two points of darkness divided by paleness. He’s not a fanciful person, but he thinks, immediately, of the young man who died raving. “He wants us to run,” he’d said. Screamed it. Sometimes, Harry thinks, Who is ‘he’? Is this he, now? Is it he, coming out of the fog? Harry’s breath hitches, but he makes himself walk toward the shape. It is a human figure. It moves like a man.  
“Who’s there?” Harry calls, but not so loudly that he might be heard at a distance. He recognizes the futility of it. The figure may not hear him, either.  
Laughter, like a metallic clang. A spring bouncing with its own tension.  
Harry presses on. It’s not far, but in the fog, it could be leagues. It could endless space, a void, oblivion.  
Resolution.  
“Collins?” Harry says.  
Collins, in his white jumper, laughs.  
“What is it, Collins?” Harry moves closer to him. Collins’ coat is gone, his braces hang around his hips; his hair is disarrayed; his expression is unreadable. “Are you all right?” Harry asks cautiously.  
Collins doesn’t halt his stride, only stops because he collides with Harry. He ventures his hands on Collins’ face. He turns Collins’ face toward him and looks into Collins’ eyes. The eyes are like eclipsing suns, the pupils blown wide in the irises. The corneas are laid over with a fine lace of red. He feels under the collar of Collins’ jumper for the veins in Collins’ neck. The pulse is hammering. He touches Collins’ cheeks, his forehead. His skin is clammy, far too warm for Collins being this exposed.  
“What happened? Are you sick?”  
An illness wouldn’t take root this quickly, and Collins doesn’t seem ill, not really. Poison. An animal with a venomous sting. But what? What kind? What is there out here? There are no animals, and the only poisons are stowed away in the infirmary.  
The empty bottle on the bench.  
“Collins, what have you taken?” Harry asks, chilled into greater focus.  
It’s useless. Collins regards him with yawning lack of comprehension.  
“Collins,” Harry says loudly, though it’s absurd, because it’s not as though there’s anything observably wrong with Collins’ hearing. “Collins,” he says again, softly, “I’m going to try to calm you. We’re going to walk to the infirmary.”  
If Collins thinks anything about this, he doesn’t say, but he puts his arm around Harry’s shoulder and allows Harry to hook an arm around his waist and lead him. They’ll have to take a long way around, Harry thinks fretfully. There’s already been too much commotion, and this would add to the general excitement. He’ll have to tell the captain, but better to leave that for when he’s settled Collins. If he can. He knows what to expect with men insensible or raving from drink, in stupor from laudanum. Those cases have a set course in his mind. He knows what remedies are to be applied, if any are needed, and he knows what progress they’ll make. This agitation is known to him only in the most basic terms. If not for the bottle, he might have set another cause to it. He still can’t be certain.  
The best thing to do for the moment may be to continue walking. This, at least, will circulate the blood, perhaps allowing the drug to run its course more quickly. So, he continues to lead Collins, who is still laughing, as far from the camp as he dares, also taking care to avoid others. They walk for some time; Harry can’t say how long. The fog starts to seem like a piece of good fortune. Queer sounds in it may keep others away- though also, no doubt, stoke their imaginings. Harry sighs. The sky is darkening, and he’s beginning to tire. The bodies may already be waiting for him. They’ll have to go to the infirmary.  
“Is Mr. Collins all right?” Bridgens asks.  
“I’m afraid not,” Harry says. “I need to keep him away from others at the moment. Can you help me with that?”  
“Yes,” Bridgens says, “I’ll keep a look out.”  
“Thank you,” Harry says, taking off his muffler and his cap. Closing the curtains to the tent, Bridgens departs.  
Harry picks up the empty bottle. “Collins, can you remember, is this what you took?” He holds the bottle in front of Collins. Collins doesn’t speak, but he reaches for the bottle. That is as conclusive an answer as Harry is likely to get. He touches Collins’ forehead. He’s still far too warm.  
“I’m going to take this off,” Harry says, tugging at Collins’ jumper. He raises Collins’ arms over his head. A great wave of heat rises with the jumper. It takes some doing to take it off, Collins grabbing at Harry’s clothes as he tries to get Collins out of his. He undoes the top button of Collins’ shirt. Collins reaches for Harry’s collar. He feels Collins’ neck again. The pulse is still fast, but perhaps more regular, Harry thinks hopefully. It’s not a real fever, so those remedies might not help. They might even do harm. Harry wets a handkerchief with cold water, wipes Collins’ face, his throat, the back of his neck. He unbuttons the cuffs of Collins’ shirt, and wets his wrists. It’s been more than an hour since Collins drank the coca wine, so an emetic would probably have limited efficacy. He blows gently on Collins’ wrists. Collins raises his hands, smooths them over Harry’s hair. He checks Collins’ pulse again. Collins touches his face.  
“Hold out your hands, please, Collins.”  
Collins looks at him. The muteness is most troubling. It’s like that of stupor, but Collins is alert, if disoriented. Sighing, he takes Collins’ hands by the wrists. Collins clasps Harry’s hands in his own.  
“Just hold them out in front of you,” Harry says gently. He takes his hands away from Collins’, extends Collins’ hands before him, palms facing downward. There is a slight tremor, but Harry’s noticed it before, and in others. Collins isn’t trembling, though he jogs his leg, as though impatient. There’s an anxious look to him that Harry didn’t notice before. Perhaps they should have continued walking. Harry looks through the slit in the tent. It has become night in earnest, and the risk posed by walking in the dark is too great.  
“Perhaps you should lie down,” Harry says, and tries to get Collins into a supine position on the bench. Collins pulls Harry down with him. Harry tries again. Now, he’s on top of Collins.  
“We’ll try someplace softer,” Harry says, getting up. He walks Collins through to his lodgings in the back. Collins allows himself to be eased down onto Harry’s bed. He grasps the front of Harry’s jacket. “I’m not going to leave,” Harry says. He feels Collins’ pulse. At least he’s slightly cooler to the touch. He lays his hand against Collins’ cheeks, his forehead.  
Collins draws Harry down to him. Collins kisses him.  
The first thing that suggests itself is concern. Collins is parched. Though this is not surprising, Harry tells himself, with the amount that Collins has been sweating.  
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Harry says, extricating himself.  
He holds out the glass to Collins. Thankfully, Collins’ thoughts are sufficiently ordered that he recognizes what it is. When he’s again able to speak, Harry must ask him what he experienced, whether he lost the power of speech, or simply felt some kind of reluctance or shyness. Collins drinks. Harry wets the handkerchief again, wipes Collins’ brow, his neck, his wrists.  
Collins pulls him close, kisses him again.  
“You shouldn’t exert yourself,” Harry says. “You’re still feverish.”  
It’s to no avail. Collins isn’t aggressive, but he is persistent. Perhaps he thinks that Harry is someone else. It’s difficult to imagine what Collins sees, who he may see. The drug can produce hallucinations in high enough doses, but Harry doesn’t have much practical knowledge on the matter, as the very object is to avoid giving more of it than is necessary to ease pain. If Collins is willing to discuss it, Harry must ask him about this, as well; his impressions, his sensations. “You’re not thinking reasonably,” Harry says gently. “It’s the drug. It can cause excitation of the nerves.” He gets up, wets the handkerchief, runs it over Collins’ face. For his trouble, he’s kissed again. Sighing, he allows Collins to do it once more before pushing him away. When Collins is again himself, Harry resolves, he will ask Collins to explain it. It’ll simply be a matter of determining the best way to approach the subject. It must be done with care; Collins must not think that Harry blames him. There’s no shame in something one can’t control. Collins must understand that.  
Collins relaxes his embrace, so Harry takes the opportunity to get up and bring Collins another glass of water. He brushes Collins’ hair away from his eyes. He lets Collins take off his coat. At least Collins’ mouth is no longer dry. Harry undoes another button of Collins’ shirt, realizing too late that this may be taken as encouragement. It must be, because Collins kisses him again, his hand on Harry’s waist.  
“Yes, it’s all right,” Harry says, smoothing down Collins’ hair. Collins winds around him, presses his face into Harry’s shoulder. He’s beginning to tremble, now. “It’s all right,” Harry says, though he has no idea what he’s referring to. After a while, he gets up again, gives Collins another glass of water. He’s cooled down somewhat, is sweating less profusely, but has yet to express the need to relieve himself, which is some cause for concern. The effects of the drug must be diminishing, but Harry isn’t sure how much further they have to go. Collins continues to tremble. He seems troubled by his forearms. He runs his hands over them, as though he notices something peculiar about the skin, or perhaps in the underlying structures. After a while, he puts his arms around Harry again, but it’s hesitantly, without urgency. He doesn’t grasp or pull, or attempt to do anything else. Harry lets himself settle into Collins’ arms. Now that Collins has calmed down a little, it’s less unnerving. Holding him may be a comfort to Collins. Perhaps it’s a comfort to Harry. He notes with detached curiosity that some of his earlier agitation has subsided. He allows that it simply feels good to be held. One’s mind may be aware of the unusual circumstances, but one’s senses don’t question it.  
“Can you sleep?” Harry asks. He touches Collins’ neck. The pulse is still rapid, but more in keeping with elevation due to normal exercise. “It might be good to try. If you don’t think you can, here, I’ll take you back to your tent.”  
Collins clears his throat. “Here.” He blinks, as though surprised by the word.  
“Good. Yes, we can stay here. Are you in any distress?” He pulls back to get a better view of Collins.  
Collins frowns. “My arms itch.”  
Harry examines them, but sees nothing unusual, and says so. Collins looks skeptical. “I feel sick,” Collins says.  
“I’ll get a basin. You should sit up. I’ll help you.”  
Slowly, he sets Collins upright. He gets the basin. He lays his hand on Collins’ forehead.  
“Are you chilled?” Harry asks.  
Collins shakes his head.  
He gives the basin to Collins. “Are you in any pain?”  
“My head,” Collins says, clutching the basin to himself.  
“I can-” but before Harry is able to say what he can do, Collins retches. “It’s all right,” Harry says, helps Collins support the basin. “I think this is owing to the wine,” Harry says absently. He puts his hand on Collins’ forehead, pushes back his hair. He looks at the ceiling. When Collins is finished, he glances at the contents of the basin. It’s mainly bile. He had feared there could be blood, due to the amount and potency of the drug. Though there is none, the thought chills him, all the same, so he sets his mind to his task. He opens the tent. In the dark, it's quiet and still. He goes around to the back, takes a few steps more, empties the basin onto the ground.  
“Are you feeling better?” he asks Collins. Collins is leaning forward, looking at his hands and arms. “I can give you something for the nausea, if you feel you can tolerate it.”  
Collins shakes his head.  
“Can you drink some water?”  
Collins nods.  
He gives Collins some water.  
“Can you lie down, or would you rather sit up?”  
“I’d like to lie down.”  
He helps Collins lie back, gathers the blankets around him.  
“Would you-” Collins begins. He turns his gaze downward, to the side.  
“I will stay, if you’d like me to.”  
“Please.”  
Collins does not embrace him now. He must be returning to consciousness of himself. Absently, he scratches at his wrist. Harry tries but fails to suppress the memory of Jacko tearing out her own fur. Gently, Harry takes Collins’ hand away from his wrist. “I can do something about the itch, at least.”  
“All right,” Collins says softly.  
He applies a light balm to Collins’ hands and forearms. “Does that give you any relief?”  
“Yes,” Collins says, but Harry is unsure. He won’t press the issue. They’ve had enough movement for the time being. He takes off his boots, and lies down. “It might be better for you to lie on your side, if you think you might be sick again.”  
Slowly, Collins turns away from Harry. The lantern is still lit. Sighing, Harry lies on his back, and looks upward. He thinks of Lady Silence lying next to him. It feels like it happened a century ago. He feels as though he’s aged that much. He had wanted to show her England, as much out of the hope of seeing it again, himself, as out of the desire to… take her away from this. He had wanted to take them both away, her and himself. If it feels to him that so much time has passed in so brief a span, so much that he now feels ancient, all but unknown to himself, is there still a home to return to? Next to him, Collins trembles.  
“Are you cold?” Harry asks quietly.  
“No.”  
“If you think it might help, I could put my arm around you.” To say it aloud, it sounds absurd. Is this the limit of his knowledge, his skill? Has he reached the end? Is he capable of nothing else? Yet, he thinks again of Lady Silence.  
“Please,” Collins says.  
Harry turns to face Collins’ back. He wraps his arm around Collins. Collins breathes out slowly. He breathes in again slowly. “Try to breathe normally,” Harry says. “Try to still yourself, if you can.”  
“Thank you,” Collins says.  
He pats Collins’ hand. “Try to sleep, now. Try to be still.” He yawns, as quietly as he can.  
“Yes. I will. Thank you.” He pats Collins’ hand again. Wherever she is, Harry hopes she’s sleeping peacefully tonight. She is, he resolves. One day, he’ll return to her. After this is over, he’ll return. He’ll know more than he now knows, and he’ll be safe in that knowledge. He’ll return, and he’ll find a way to show her that they are so much more than what she’s seen; that it was as he told her: they aren’t like this. But if that is so, why do they not act like it? Privately, it bewilders him, still, though he knows very well that these are the effects of disease on the mind. It’s something no one could help. Those who are sick or in pain do not choose it. Yet, though this should give him some comfort, it only makes him feel scattered, somehow, as though his constituent parts have been flung far from him, and he struggles to gather them up. He sees Morfin before him, on the ground, also scattered. He feels the effort of attempting to collect what has been lost. He feels himself crouching down, groping around in the stones outside. Something vital is missing. That, alone, guides him, as he continues to move across a landscape that is also shifting. He lays his hand on something. The shape is recognizable to him, but he can’t quite place it. It is in some way changed, different from what he remembers. It’s distorted, disarrayed, where once, it had an order, neatly mapped in Harry’s mind. What is it? What is he looking at? The name for it is close at hand, but it escapes him. He feels himself speaking words that are similar, but miss the mark.  
Lieutenant Irving looks up at him, eyelids half-unfurled as though slowly waking, or slipping into sleep. Harry moves to close the eyes. He feels his hand come up, yet it is not the lieutenant’s face that he touches. It’s some other part. An arm.  
Why is there an arm in his bed?  
Harry wakes, with a gasp and the feeling of being shaken. He hadn’t noticed himself falling asleep. He’s holding onto Collins’ arm. Collins is turned slightly toward him, his eyes open, startled.  
“I’m sorry, Collins,” he says, and lets go. Harry breathes in and then out, slowly and evenly. “I was dreaming. I’ll put out the light. Perhaps that was the cause,” he murmurs as he gets out of bed. The tent darkened, he feels somewhat more at ease. “Are you all right?” he asks, lying down again next to Collins.  
“My head. It still hurts a bit.”  
“Would you like something for the pain? Or to help you sleep?”  
“No, thank you.”  
“I’m going to check your pulse. May I?”  
“Yes,” Collins says, and Harry feels him turn a little.  
“It’s still a bit fast, but less than it was. You aren’t as warm. How do you feel?”  
“Very strange, Doctor.”  
“After what you’ve been through, that’s not surprising." He adds, “If you don’t feel up to your duties tomorrow, I can speak to the captain.”  
“No. Please don’t do that. I’ll be all right.”  
Harry frowns. “All right. I will come and see you, and you must tell me if you experience any worsening or additional symptoms.”  
Collins is quiet. Harry thinks that he’s fallen asleep, feels himself beginning to drift down into slumber. Then, Collins speaks: “It didn’t work.”  
“What’s that, Collins?”  
“The coca wine. For a while, it did. I felt… like I was no longer myself. I felt light. I felt good.”  
“Euphoria is one of the effects of the drug.”  
“After a while, it went wrong. I don’t even know how it happened. I didn’t notice it happening. And then, I was back where I began. Now, I don’t know what to do.”  
“For now, just try to rest,” Harry says gently. He lays his hand on Collins’ arm. Collins covers Harry’s hand with his own. “You need to recover. We can talk about this at length when you’re feeling better.”  
“I don’t think I will feel better.”  
“You mustn’t think that way,” Harry says. “There’s always something that can be done. I’ll be here to help you.” ‘To the best of my ability,’ nag the unspoken words. He won’t speak them. Collins doesn’t need to hear them.  
“Thank you, Doctor.”  
“Think nothing of it.”  
He listens to Collins’ breathing, feels the beating of his heart, gradually slowing. He dozes. He wakes, and gently places his hand on Collins’ brow. He’s cooler, now, almost back to normal. He pulls the blanket a little higher up Collins’ side. He listens. He feels. He sleeps.


	2. As Pure As?

When Harry wakes, Collins is gone. Feeling the unexpected absence next to him, he thinks of Lady Silence. He feels a strange sense of grief, of loss that’s almost a physical sensation, before that is crushed by panic. Something could have happened. Sighing, Harry gets up. Unless he can easily locate Collins, he’ll have to tell the captain about this. Unbidden come various possibilities, each one more troubling than the last. He puts on his boots and his coat.  
He’s almost outside when he collides with Collins, for a second time.  
“What is it? Are you all right?”  
“Call of nature,” Collins says, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”  
Collins is wearing his jumper again, which means that he has some appreciation of the cold. “And you, did you sleep?” Harry asks.  
“Not really.”  
“How do you feel?”  
Collins smiles ruefully. “Like I’ve been hauled over uneven ground.”  
“Better or worse than last night?”  
“Better,” Collins says without much conviction.  
“I’d like to examine you before you go about your business, if that’s all right.”  
Collins nods. His eyes appear normal, if a bit irritated. He’s warm, but not like he was the night before. His heartbeat and breathing are close to normal. His hands still shake, but this is not new. “What of the irritation to your skin?” Harry asks.  
“It’s less.”  
“May I look at your arms?”  
Collins nods, and pulls up his sleeves. There’s some pinkness to the skin. A red line stands out on the back of his left wrist. Harry looks up. “Is this-”  
Collins looks away. “I did that.”  
Harry places his hand over the scratch before he remembers himself, and lets go of Collins’ arm. “But the sensation is less severe, now?”  
“Yes.”  
“What of the nausea?”  
“I think it’s gone.”  
“Try to eat something, if you feel up to it. Here,” he pours Collins a glass of water. Collins drinks.  
“May I go?” Collins asks.  
“I see no reason to keep you, unless you have concerns.”  
“No, Doctor.”  
“I will come to see you later on.”  
“Yes,” Collins says. “Thank you.”  
Harry tries to smile a little. “Be well, Collins.”  
Collins nods. He hesitates, as though he means to say something, but he does not stop.  
Harry feels himself drop down onto the bench. He breathes out deeply. After a moment, he gathers himself up, goes into the next tent.  
“How is Mr. Collins?” Bridgens asks. “I saw him go out.”  
“He is...” Harry begins. He looks at Bridgens, his features set in concern. Somehow, this makes it impossible to be plain. “His condition has improved.”  
“I’m glad,” Bridgens says.  
Harry again tries to smile. “Has the captain sent for me?”  
“No. Is something the matter?”  
“No,” Harry says too quickly. He shouldn’t have asked. “I simply wished to speak to him, and he said that he would send for me, when he had a free moment.”  
Bridgens nods, and that is the end of it.  
The day passes, without any news. The bodies must be hidden away for the time being. It’s the prudent thing to do, but it only makes Harry anxious. The cold slows the processes of decay, but any change to the bodies could obscure what he seeks. Though, he still doesn’t know what he seeks. The obvious physical signs are well-known to him, but every malady leaves traces on the body invisible from the outside. The brain is the obvious keeper of such secrets, and among the first organs to degrade.  
There is never enough time.  
The vehemence with which he thinks it shocks him.  
By now, it’s late in the day. The men will be done with general duty. He puts on his coat, and goes outside. He finds Collins outside of his tent. As though Collins were waiting. Strangely, the thought cheers Harry somewhat. He wasn’t wrong to come here.  
“How are you?” he asks.  
Frowning, Collins looks to the side.  
“Would you prefer to speak in the infirmary?”  
“Yes.”  
Once there, Harry closes the tent behind them. “What is it, Collins? Are you feeling unwell?”  
“No,” he says, “I feel much better.”  
“Good. Were you able to eat?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. How did the day go?”  
“I still don’t feel like myself.”  
“In what way?”  
Collins looks down. “In the same way.”  
Harry nods. “Yes, I see. Would you like to talk about it?”  
Collins laughs. “I don’t know what else there is to say. I didn’t even want to say what I have said.”  
“I know it’s difficult to believe, but saying it aloud is helpful.”  
“I don’t see how.”  
Harry opens his mouth to speak, but finds that he doesn't know what to say. Suddenly, he's very tired.  
Collins sighs. “I’m sorry.”  
“For what?”  
“For taking the coca wine. For my behavior.”  
“It was a dangerous, foolish thing to do.”  
“I know.”  
“Please don’t do anything like that again.” Harry frowns. He is close to pleading. He doesn’t want to sound this way. It will help neither of them. He makes himself adopt a more even tone. “I understand it, though. You were in distress. I wish I’d known to what extent.” He forces himself not to think of Morfin. Carefully, he presses on: “As for what you did while intoxicated, you weren’t responsible for your actions, and you don’t have any reason to be sorry.”  
“I was responsible.”  
“I mean that you weren’t aware of yourself.”  
Collins shakes his head. “I wasn’t so unconscious.”  
He sets his hand on Collins’ shoulder. “You didn’t hurt anyone.” Though even saying it brings a chill to Harry, feels too much like tempting fate.  
Collins looks to the side. “I imposed upon you, upon your kindness.”  
Harry smiles. “My honor’s still intact,” he says, then realizes that Collins might not find that amusing. “I don’t think you knew who I was,” he adds, gently.  
“I did know it was you, and I didn’t do anything I haven’t thought of doing before. And I’m sorry.”  
Harry sighs. He’s so tired. He can’t do anything more than he has. This is the limit of his knowledge, his skill. He looks into Collins’ eyes. He breathes in deeply. He makes himself hold his breath a moment. His mind is unchanged. He says: “I think we all feel lonely, at times.” He brings his hand up to Collins’ face. As he does it, he realizes that it’s irresponsible, provocative, possibly unkind, but Collins is standing close to him, and Collins is solid and warm, and Collins is there. Collins is not a dream or a vision or a memory. There is no future attached to him by strings, no conditions that must be fulfilled, no time for which Harry will have to wait to be better or wiser. Now that he has drained the reserves of his professional understanding, exhausted by his own lack of comprehension, with nowhere else to go, he lets himself feel the emotions that come to him naturally. He’s happy that Collins is alive, that, unwell though he is, Collins is no longer in immediate danger. That it won’t be Collins’ death that he next has to pronounce. That it won’t be Collins’ body that he has to ask the captain for permission to dissect.  
They’ve been spared. And Harry is happy.  
He leans up, and kisses Collins. Collins wraps his arms around Harry, enfolds him totally. There’s nothing left to fear. He holds onto Collins as Collins holds onto him, kissing him, his hands on Collins’ back, feeling him breathe, feeling his heart beat. Collins’ breathing is deep but normal. His heartbeat is fast, but not unrelenting, as it was the night before. His mouth is soft, his kiss is deep, his hands are gentle. Harry lets himself be eased up onto the bench. Collins takes off his coat, sets it down next to Harry. He runs his hands up Collins’ waist, lays his hand over Collins’ heart. When Collins kisses him, it’s nothing like the night before. Not a blurred impression, not a haze. He’s there, complete, with whatever he fears or wants, with everything he feels, for Harry to deal with, to help Collins hold at bay or draw closer. He slips his hand up Collins’ jumper, over his belly, around to his back. He feels the muscles there, how they are arranged, how they recede into the valley of Collins’ spine. Collins takes off his jumper. Collins’ arms over his head, Harry follows the lines of Collins' ribcage with his hands, feels the muscles settle as Collins puts down his arms. Collins’ mouth is on his again. He puts his hands on Collins’ hips, smooths his hands slowly over them.  
“May I take off your coat?” Collins asks.  
“Yes. I’d forgotten I was wearing it.” He stands, takes off his coat, himself, but allows Collins to remove his jacket. His hands pause at Harry’s tie. “That, as well,” Harry says. Collins removes his tie, kisses Harry’s throat. He feels his head fall back, Collins’ whiskers irritating his skin, opening his tactile sense. He wraps his arms around Collins. He moves his hands down again, to Collins’ hips. He presses himself against Collins. Only once he’s done it, does it occur to him that it might be too much. He pulls away, but leaves his hands on Collins’ waist, both of them silent for a moment. Breathing.  
“Tell me if you want to rest,” Harry says finally. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”  
Collins laughs. “I want you to overwhelm me.”  
He places his hand on Collins’ cheek. “Would you like to lie down?”  
Collins breathes out. “Yes.”  
Before Harry can attempt to form the question of how they’re to accommodate themselves, Collins puts his hands on Harry’s waist, reclines and brings Harry down on top of him. He unbuttons his shirt, baring his neck, and Harry kisses him there. He feels Collins’ heartbeat. He feels Collins’ breathing. Everything is as it should be. It drives Harry on, this gladness to have Collins near him that begins to verge on a kind of hysterical ecstasy. Beyond that, there is the desire to see more of Collins, to feel more of him, to know under better circumstances the body that caused Harry such anxiety the night before. There is no mystery, now, no fear, no vexation. Just Collins, as he allows Harry to bare more of him, the pallor of his skin and the darkness of the hair that covers his chest and his belly, the sturdiness of his arms and shoulders, line and curve and plane. He holds Harry against him as they kiss, his hands on Harry’s hips, moving him a bit, moving against him. They might finish like this, nothing more needed than the press of each others’ bodies. They could remain a mystery to each other, yet.  
He puts his lips to Collins’ ear. “If you’ll permit it, I’d like to relieve you.”  
Collins turns his head to regard Harry. “Yes. Please.”  
He makes himself hold Collins' gaze. “I’d like to use my mouth.”  
Collins’ eyes slip shut. “Good Lord,” he laughs. He opens his eyes, looks into Harry’s. “Do whatever you’d like to me.”  
He kisses Collins, undoing his trousers, then his drawers, pulling them down. He touches him first, sounding the degree of his desire, bringing him to almost the point of termination. He listens to the sounds that Collins makes, feels his own desire increase. He takes away his hand, applies his mouth. He tastes. He feels. He listens. He takes Collins to the end. He finds a handkerchief, spits into it. He hopes Collins won’t take offense.  
Collins pulls him up, kisses his mouth. Is it exciting to Collins, tasting himself? After what they’ve just done, some intimacy is implied. Harry lets it make him bold. As he speaks it, the question produces a pang, low in his belly.  
“I’ll show you how much,” Collins says. He kisses Harry again, his hand on Harry’s hip, then between his legs. He opens Harry’s trousers. Gently, he turns Harry onto his back. “Would you like the same?” Collins asks.  
“I’d prefer you like this,” Harry says, “On top of me.”  
“Like this?” Collins asks, pulling down Harry’s trousers, his drawers, positioning himself, then pressing down a bit more. Harry moves a little, feels Collins against him. The pang in his belly resounds, expands, blooms into a full ache.  
“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes,” he says again, working himself against Collins. He holds onto Collins, his mouth on Collins’ shoulder, as he brings himself off. He continues a little longer, for the prickling it brings to his nerves. He feels his hips jerk involuntarily against Collins, a hollow echo of release that forces a gasped exhalation from him. He rests his hands on Collins' back. They lie like that for a while. Now that it's over, the press of Collins' body is less exciting than soothing to him. He's beginning to feel as though he could fall asleep like this when Collins moves off of him. After a moment, Harry gets up, and fills the wash basin. They refresh themselves. They dress.  
“I should be going,” Collins says.  
“Must you?”  
“Would you like me to stay?”  
Harry smiles. “After last night, I’m afraid that I’ve gotten used to you being there.”  
“I’m a restless sleeper.”  
“I don't mind. Come and lie down. It’s getting late for me.”  
“It probably is late,” Collins says.  
Harry puts out the light and lies down, and Collins settles himself next to Harry. “Would you like me to put my arm around you?”  
“Yes. Please. Is it all right if I face you?”  
“Yes,” Harry says. He caresses Collins’ face, kisses him. He wraps his arm around Collins. Collins closes his eyes. He listens to Collins breathing. It takes Harry some time to fall asleep, so he's able to note the gradual slowing of it, Collins drifting into slumber.  
Release. Relief.

The arm in his bed belongs to Collins. Harry smiles.  
Only just awake, they lie together in the pale, quiet early morning. The light grows stronger. The sounds of the camp creep into the tent. They wake up.  
“You can come here again tonight,” Harry says. He doesn’t fully realize what he’s said until the words have already been spoken.  
“Do you mean that?” Collins asks.  
He does.  
Collins will.  
Harry will wait for the night. Until then, there’s the day. He makes himself presentable. He goes through to the other part of the infirmary.  
Harry nearly collides with Bridgens, who stands at the entrance, his expression grave.  
“What is it?” Harry asks.  
Bridgens moves aside. Harry sees the forms laid out on the benches, somewhat disguised by their gray shrouds, but unmistakable.  
“Thank you, Mr. Bridgens.”  
“Do you require assistance?” His expression says plainly that he hopes not to be asked.  
“No, Mr. Bridgens. I can attend to this.”  
“I’ll leave you to it,” Bridgens says, and makes haste to leave. The opening of the tent claps closed behind him.  
And Harry is alone, with the bodies.


End file.
